Joseph's Escape
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Joseph, formerly Andrew Kingswood, has lived in Gatlin, Nebraska for three years since Isaac came to town and led the town's children in a religious revolution. It's time to leave.
1. Chapter 1- The Long Summer

**Chapter I- The Long Summer**

* * *

It was June 17th, 1981. Friday. The town of Gatlin, with a population of 5,147 at the last census but probably much less than that now, was dying. Gatlin depended on its vast, endless fields of corn. Its people lived and died off the endless seas of corn surrounding their town, and the corn had been struck by a draught this year, one of the worst in Nebraska history. It lay limp in the wind, tan and dying. The town's few leaders, Father James Abrams and Police Chief John Tyndall among them, tried to keep everyone's spirits up as best they could. But even twelve-year-old Andrew could see they were failing.

When the bell rang for the end of school that day, Andrew stood up and walked out of the hot, dusty classroom, joining the dozens of myriad boys and girls, all dressed in whatever simple garments their parents could afford, in heading off for home. In the school's one main hallway, Andrew sighted one of the high school's tallest boys, the red-haired and grim Craig Boardman. Craig never seemed to laugh or smile much, except when he was causing one of the younger boys pain. Andrew had forked over lunch money to Craig many times. But in some ways, you couldn't help but wonder what Craig might have been like had things been different at home- in a town as small as Gatlin, everybody knew that Craig's father was a drinker. And that when Henry Boardman drank, he got mean, and liked to quite righteously beat the hell out of his oldest son while the younger ones cowered in a corner. But Craig had actually cheered up lately; all the boys with home lives like Craig's had since a few weeks ago.

Since William had come into town, simply walking into school one day with his black preacher's clothes and announcing that he was here to tell Gatlin's children the truth. Many of the kids had laughed, and so had the teachers, who had absolutely no idea what William meant by that.

William had taken the mockery in stride, simply sitting down in an empty seat and making no more remarks that first day. Then on Sunday, a few kids had gone missing at the Grace Baptist Church. That had raised a few eyebrows; in Gatlin, everyone went to church on Sunday. And with the sun beating down on Gatlin without mercy all through the summer of 1981, with the draught seemingly resolved to kill every living thing in the town, church attendance had only gone up. Everyone was turning to God, it seemed; in a small town like Gatlin, God was the only answer.

So when a few kids had not shown up for the Sunday service three weeks ago, a lot of questions got asked. Some adults were very angry, and Father Abrams was very disappointed. But when he learned that William was a deeply devout boy, one who dressed like he was going to church even when he went to school, Father Abrams' disappointment turned to pleasant surprise. He smiled as William told him of his first journey out into a clearing in the cornfield, and how William had found God there. Father Abrams was completely at ease by the time William finished, explaining that he had only led a handful of Gatlin's children into the cornfield to preach to them himself. Taking the boy on as one of the Grace Baptist Church's own, Father Abrams had tenatively encouraged him to see what else he could do.

Having no apparent home of his own, William slept in the church, and on the next Sunday he led nearly a dozen children into the cornfield; their parents had been assured that all was well, and Father Abrams was if anything relieved. Children were often disruptive and direspectful during the services, and in the face of such adversity as the town now faced this summer, Gatlin's children in particular had been losing hope. But three weeks ago William had appeared, and to Father Abrams it was like the boy was a gift from God himself.

Before William Renfrew, Abrams had felt he was losing the children of the town, who any man of God would know where the most precious gift of all. But suddenly, with the arrival of this dark-haired and solemn boy, everything had changed. The children had begun to speak of God with respect and reverence again… and perhaps, if Father Abrams guessed right, even fear. But was that so bad? Abrams shrugged it off, the one time he seriously contemplated that as a potential problem. God was the creator of life, the universe- the all-seeing judge and father. Was it wrong to fear a being of such immense power?

By Isaac's third Sunday in Gatlin, nearly every child in town was there in the clearing in the cornfield, listening as Isaac- for that was his new name, or perhaps his real one- preached hellfire and brimstone, straight from the Old Testament. Isaac began talking of some strange things that day. He talked of fearing Him absolutely, of how only through a lifetime of dutiful servitude could you ever hope to be rewarded on the other side. Really hitting his stride that past Sunday, Isaac had gone on to shout of the damning of unbelievers, of the judgement of the Lord… and sacrifice.

Andrew, sitting there in the circle gathered around Isaac with his legs crossed, suddenly felt cold.

But then Craig, tall and charismatic and by far Isaac's strongest follower now- an irony considering how cruelly he had mocked Isaac weeks ago- had approached him after the service in the cornfield ended. Holding a small cloth bag that clinked from inside when he moved it, Craig solemnly handed it to Andrew. "Isaac wanted me to give you this," Craig said, as Andrew stared at him in disbelief. When Andrew asked why Craig had so suddenly chosen to bring back all the money he'd taken from Andrew in at least the past year, Craig didn't shrug, or laugh, or push Andrew down like he might once have done.

No. Craig actually seemed to wilt a little at the memory of his actions in the past. Bowing his head slightly- and not just because he was taller than Andrew and naturally looked down at him- the boy with red hair that flowed down to his shoulders said, "It was wrong of me. We will all stand before His throne one day, and He does not love an unrepentant thief."

Then Craig had walked away, heading back towards what passed for the centre of town. Andrew had stared after him for some time, seemingly alone in the clearing. Then Isaac had approached him from behind, startling Andrew with how quietly he appeared. "You see how the new ways are, Andrew? Things are changing as we each turn to Him."

"The corn's still dying," Andrew said grimly.

"It won't be," Isaac said with unshakeable confidence. "Not for much longer."

And so it had come to pass that yesterday, Isaac had called for a meeting of all the children in Gatlin in the cornfield after school. They all came, save for two of the younger ones, Sarah and Job. Their parents remained holdouts, some of the only adults in Gatlin still convinced Isaac was up to no good. It would come to reflect badly on them, even after the Rising, that they had never been there in the beginning. That they had not been there the day He Who Walks Behind the Rows made himself known.

And that He had done, that hot, dusty Thursday afternoon. Andrew and the dozens of other children, some as young as nine or ten, had gathered as Isaac told them to. At first, they had wondered why they were here- even as Isaac preached, it was little different from normal. But then suddenly, something had happened. Nobody knew if it was Isaac's doing, or a response to the increasingly-sincere prayer that had been coming from each of Gatlin's children at each of these gatherings. But what Andrew did know was that the sky had gone dark, a deep, throaty rumble had sounded, and the corn all around them had closed up like a wall. The ground shook, and heavy footfalls shook the ground. Over the sound of the rushing wind, Isaac pointed up at the darkened sky, off into the endless seas of corn. Something tall and dark was out there.

Something big.

Andrew had only a moment to notice it had red eyes the size of footballs before he dropped to his knees in terror, crossing himself and bowing so his forehead touched the dry ground. The other children, terrified beyond words, quickly followed his example. Only Isaac remained on his feet, shouting joyously over the sound of the wind, straight up at the darkened sky.

Then a voice had sounded, one so deep it sounded like the heavy rumble of a freight train. It sounded like a thousand voices of a million pitches all speaking at once, and it was not a voice to be ignored. Or disobeyed.

The voice had shouted, "You pray like dutiful followers, yet you sin as _shamelessly_ as the false minister! You _still obey_ the orders of the Blue Man! I am much displeased. You ask that your harvest be saved; there will be _no_ salvation without _sacrifice_."

Then the wind had stopped, the skies had cleared and the corn reopened again. Even Isaac was shaking as he bid that they all return home, and strangest of all, when Andrew got home and mentioned the storm clouds he'd seen, his parents both looked at him like he was nuts. Clearly none of the people outside the cornfield had seen anything of what happened there. That made Andrew wonder very much what would be happening next.

Craig's hand gripped Andrew on the shoulder as they passed in the hallway; he said only "Isaac wants everyone in the cornfield this Sunday" before going on his way again. Andrew nodded, shifting the books tucked under his arm. How was this unique, or anything but routine? Andrew had struggled to stay awake during most of Father Abrams' services, as sincere as the man was. Isaac would constantly change his approach, shouting one minute and speaking softly the next. He seemed to be in constant communication with the Lord, with the new god- or, Andrew sensed, the terribly old god- called He Who Walks Behind the Rows. It was as if Isaac knew just what the Lord wanted, and what His children were to do next.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened as Andrew went home that day. He was joined for a time by Matt, a stocky boy with freckles and flaming red hair like Craig's. Matt Kemper's house was across the street from the Kingswood's. When they passed Jennifer Creighton's house, Andrew peered hopefully up at her bedroom window and blushed when he realised she wasn't home yet. Walking along Main Street in his home-made leather shoes, Matt elbowed him and grinned. "Maybe when Isaac's the head preacher for the whole town, Jennifer can be your, uh, Beloved Other!"

Andrew's face heated in embarassment; he had hardly talked with Jennifer Creighton. Pretty girls scared him somehow; Andrew could never think of the right thing to say. But he wanted to. He wished he could.

Trying to turn the topic away from himself, Andrew said, "But Isaac's not in charge."

"Not yet," Matt answered, and suddenly Andrew looked sharply to his right as they walked along the road home. Matt stared back, not a bit of levity on his face now. Slowly, Andrew nodded. So Matt really did believe.

Seeming to guess his friend's thoughts, Matt said, "Don't you believe that Isaac's right, Andrew? Isaac says we have too much sinning in Gatlin. Too much sinning and not enough sacrifice. Maybe…" he trailed off briefly, knowing what he wanted to say but not sure of how to say it best. "Maybe we'll have to do some hard things to save the harvest this year."

Andrew didn't know what to make of that. He knew as well as anyone that Gatlin could never survive more than one year's bad harvest in a row; this draught was terrible, but it was only slightly worse than the one Gatlin had experienced last summer. Two summers of draught might very well mean a long, cold and hungry winter the second time around.

"I guess so, Matt." Andrew said, hoping he sounded sure of himself. Then he thought of Craig, how he'd changed- somewhat for the better- since Isaac had arrived in town. He thought of all the other boys and girls. How the teenagers had stopped toying around with their fathers' cigars and alcohol, and how some of the more eager boys- Matt among them- were suddenly being spurned by girls to whom sex before marriage was now a sacrilege. Things were starting to shape up in Gatlin, despite the continued dry, brutal heat of the summer. The children of Gatlin had discovered discipline at last, and their newfound faith was the joy of nearly every adult in town. How could Andrew say this was such a bad thing?

Matt elbowed him again; they'd walked long enough in silence that they were now nearing their homes. "Isaac leads us now, Andrew," Matt said, his voice grave. "I know _you'll_ be with us on Sunday."

What that meant to Andrew when he thought about it later was, _You'd better be_.


	2. Chapter 2- The New Commandment

**Chapter II- The New Commandment**

* * *

Andrew knew as spartan a life as any boy on any farm in Nebraska- he might have been an only child, but in a town like Gatlin that was actually worse than coming from Matt's family of eight. In the far-off suburbs and cities of the East and West coasts, where sin was a religion and people had long ago forsaken the word of God, children from large families lived in envy of boys or girls who, aside from their parents, lived alone. That meant more attention, more luxury- a bigger slice of the pie. In Gatlin, the situation was reversed, meaning just the opposite.

As Andrew stood in the wheat field behind his parents' frame house, stripped down to his jeans and cap to fight off the dry and unyielding heat, he stopped swinging the scythe briefly. "Yeah," Andrew said to the silence- his father was over in Hemingford buying watermelons- "it's great being the only kid in the house." Then he went back to slowly walking the wheat field, carefully swinging the scythe. These hard, long summers always saw Andrew spend a lot of time in the fields. He insisted to his parents that he often worked shirtless to fight the heat; he forgot to mention that he tended to do this whenever Jennifer Creighton was at home down the street, hoping she'd come by.

On Sunday, June 19th, 1981, the children all went to the cornfield dressed in their Sunday best- aside from Sarah and Job Baker, who still joined their parents at the Grace Baptist Church each weekend. Andrew did not have a proper 'suit', but few of the boys did. He wore his darker, more formal trousers and shirt, tucking the shirt in and shining his black leather shoes, the ones he wore just for church, before he left.

Andrew's father was a tall, dark-haired man, a burly farmer with a strong belief in God and a low tolerance for bullshit. With his steadfast devotion to hard, honest work and a deep regard for family, Trevor Kingswood was the iconic American farmer. He whole-heartedly approved of Andrew joining the other children in attending Isaac's sermons in the cornfield; to Trevor, much as with Father Abrams, children learning to love God from one of their own was hardly a bad thing.

"I'll see you at home once the service is over," Andrew's father said, preparing to head out the door in the only actual suit the family owned. "Yes, sir," Andrew answered, wondering just what Isaac would have planned this time. Like all the other children, Andrew was fascinated by Isaac's absolute refusal to give up hope in the face of the draught, easily the worst the town had known in years. He was entranced by Isaac's thundering promises of the coming of a new age; Isaac was just too sure of himself to be wrong.

But Andrew wondered… what was all that talk of tribute, and sacrifice? Words like that had never been used when talking about God; not in any of the services Andrew had been to growing up. Father Abrams had always spoken of God as a kind and loving being, one who cared for all His children equally. Certainly not someone who demanded blood tribute and sacrifice, and would harshly punish all who disobeyed Him. That didn't sound like the God Andrew had grown up hearing about… so where had this new one come from?

"Have a good time, Andrew," his mother said, bending down in her white dress to scoop Andrew up and hug him. A slender woman almost the same height as her husband, Judy Kingswood had a radiant smile and blonde hair that flowed down to her shoulders. She was from nearby Hemingford, and the daughter of a World War II vet who had received the Silver Star for single-handedly taking a German machine gun nest in Italy. Like her husband, Judy believed in discipline and the Bible, and growing up in the Kingswood household, Andrew had received both. But he respected his father, and loved his mother- just as it should have been.

"Aw, Mom," Andrew said, turning a little pink in the image of boyish embarrassment. His mother just laughed and ruffled his black hair a bit. Then she knelt and set her hands on his shoulders, her eyes serious. "Mind your steps on the way to the field, Andrew. And remember that we love you."

"I will, Mom," Andrew promised, hugging her again, this time of his own initiative, before she went out the door. About ten minutes later Andrew set out for the cornfield, catching up to Matt who was already on his way there. Once they got to the clearing at the edge of town where Isaac held his own Sunday services now, Andrew looked around for Jennifer Creighton, doing his best to be subtle about it. Matt, after knowing Andrew for so many years, could see through that pretty easily. "She's not here," he said quietly as the children of Gatlin, more and more each minute, gathered in the clearing. "I heard her folks saying they thought they'd visit some friends in Hemingford at church today." Once again, though, Matt elbowed Andrew and grinned. "I think somebody is coveting something he shouldn't."

Andrew's face flushed red. "I just live down the street from her," he insisted. "Sometimes my family helps hers plow the fields."

Matt's grin just grew wider. "I think you wanna plow her field."

"Y-no! No!" Andrew spluttered, and by now Matt was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"Intercourse other than that which is permitted by Him is forbidden," a small voice off to their right said. Turning, both boys saw Isaac, barely ten years old, staring up at them in his black clothes and his wide-brimmed black hat. His expression was solemn, and his voice grim. Isaac never joked.

"You know what the Lord commands," Isaac said, his voice written with disapproval.

Both older boys promptly bowed their heads, an appropriate display of their regret and shame. "Yes, Isaac," Matt said. "We are sorry."

Isaac looked between them for just a moment, nodded slightly and walked on into the clearing. Craig Boardman stood up and shouted for quiet, and immediately the children gathered in a C-shaped crowd and sat, obediently looking up at Isaac and waiting for him to speak.

"Behold," Isaac said quietly, his face not betraying the slightest hint of levity. "For the Lord did come to me in the night, and He did show all this to me."

"What has He commanded?" one small boy, James Parks from down Main Street, asked. Isaac turned and gave him such a stare that the younger boy wilted like the dying corn around him. Whimpering an apology, James stared at the ground, unable to meet Isaac's burning eyes. The message was clear; save for perhaps Craig Boardman, nobody but nobody interrupted or even spoke a word during Isaac's sermons. Not unless he indicated otherwise.

His point made, Isaac continued. "The Lord knows we stand greatly in need of His aid. He also knows that this small town has known a wicked life, and that too much sin has occurred here for any small act of penance to set it right."

"To me He appeared in a dream, as He did on the Day of Revelation, towering above the distant corn! He said, 'I will aid My children, but I will not aid those who are not proven and devoted as servants of Me. There shall be an Age of Favor, and no favor of Mine will be shown unto you without sacrifice."

_Sacrifice_. The word echoed ominously in Andrew's mind.

Isaac pushed on relentlessly, picking up the urgency in his stride. "The Lord commanded of me, Take you your flock, and spill the blood of all who would make blasphemy. Sweep away the unholy things of the world- the alcohol, the music made not with the human tongue, the fornication by those not bonded in My sight."

Now Isaac was shouting. "So go you now, children of God! Go you now, Children of the Corn, servants of He Who Walks Behind the Rows! Go now and sweep away all that does blasphemy unto the Lord. He shall have His sacrifice."

Suddenly, Craig Boardman was on his feet, angry and shouting. "Praise God! Praise the Lord!" He yelled it over and over. In an instant, Matt jumped up and began yelling it too. "Praise God! Praise the Lord!" Then two more boys jumped up, then three. Soon more and more children were joining in, rapidly whipping themselves up into a frenzy. Andrew got up too, and shouted along with all the rest. Somehow, he knew in that instant that every beer bottle, every radio and every television that could be found in Gatlin would soon be destroyed. In perhaps a vision of his own, Andrew could see the sacrifice to come, and in that moment he knew what was coming. He knew every adult in Gatlin was going to die today, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The yelling went on for some time, reaching a fever pitch; the eyes of every child in the clearing were alight with the fire that burned in the eyes of God. Every one of them was ready to do the Lord's will, even if it meant murdering their own parents. It was all for the Lord and nothing for them, nothing for them and all for the Lord.

The boy preacher stood at the head of the shouting, furious crowd of children, watching as Craig Boardman, easily his most devoted follower, led them in a religious chant that soon became a war cry. Isaac could see things were going well. He could see that the Lord's will would indeed be done today, and that a new way of life had come to Gatlin, just as the Lord had commanded him to do.

Isaac walked through the crowd and began making his way back down the road; behind him he could hear the children dispersing, Craig Boardman leading a number of boys off to the only café in town. Isaac began walking back into town, not minding the whooping and shouting children behind him. One boy ran past him, carrying a scythe. He looked more than ready to use it.

And Isaac smiled.


	3. Chapter 3- The Rising

**Chapter III- The Rising**

* * *

It began in the early afternoon that day, that hot, dry June day in the summer of 1981. It did not start with the shooting of guns; in fact, despite the collections of firearms that a few of Gatlin's men possessed, not one bullet was discharged by even one child during the uprising.

Nor did it start with a sudden outburst of violence, or the act of an angry mob. Instead, it started quickly yet quietly, like sand infiltrating a house, the eventual flood beginning with just a few select trickles. A few children made their way back to their homes, gaily swinging a variety of hammers, hatchets, hand-scythes and hunting knives. Those children, who knew beforehand their parents would be coming straight home from church, ran inside their houses, laughing. There were a few screams, shouts of surprise and the purest shock. But when the children ran back out of one house and into the next, no adults came with them, and their weapons were soon gleaming with a red coating of blood.

Isaac and Craig led a group of older boys to Hanson's Diner, the café in town where a dozen or so adults would usually gather after church. They were there today, just like always. But unlike most days, Mr. Hanson himself was trying hard to conceal his terror, the almost uncontrollable shaking of his hands. He'd been quietly approached by Craig Boardman one knight, grabbed from behind and with a knife pressed to his throat told to put arsenic in the drinks of everyone who visited the café that coming Sunday.

The arsenic would be supplied to him, Hanson was told, and as long as he cooperated, neither he nor his family would be harmed. Hanson didn't know what was coming, but he could guess. But what could he do? How could he warn _anyone_? Hanson thought of one; he left an anonymous note with Jeff Rockbridge, head of the ten-man Gatlin Police Department. The note only said that there might be trouble in town on Sunday; nothing else. But even so, Mr. Hanson hadn't seen any way around what was coming. He did what he was told.

Isaac, that evil little creature of a boy, appeared in the window about ten minutes after Craig Boardman and a group of the older boys showed up. Then Isaac nodded to Craig under his wide-brimmed hat, and the uprising began in earnest. In the span of two minutes and fifteen seconds, more than twelve of Gatlin's adult citizens had died, including the parents of Sarah and Job Baker. Mr. Hanson died also, brutally killed by a machete-wielding Craig Boardman. When Hanson had pleadingly reminded Craig of the deal, the red-haired boy had just grinned. "I lied."

For his part, Andrew followed his friend Matt and a pair of younger boys to the Baker's house, sitting comfortably under the few still-healthy trees off a corner on Main Street, just across from a cornfield. Matt banged at the door furiously, then kicked it in. The boys rushed into the house and reached the kitchen- and Edith Baker on the phone with her son at the café- in just moments. The old woman struggled and screamed, putting up quite a fight. Andrew, lashing out with his bowie knife, cut the phone's cord and yanked the line out of the wall.

Matt grinned under a mess of straw-blonde hair as he finally got his knife around the old woman's throat. "Remand your soul to God, for you will stand before His throne momentarily!" Matt crowed, then slashed. The spray of blood was immediate, amazing. One of the littler boys, James, was splattered with it. He squealed and dropped his hammer, rubbing at himself but only succeeding in smearing it around. "Ooh," he exclaimed, or it might have been "Oog". "Ooh, blood!"

Finding Sarah Baker still asleep upstairs, fitfully tossing around in her sleep and running a high fever, the boys made sure the window was open, so a good breeze would be coming in. Sick children would be attended to later but for now, it was all they could do.

A screech of rubber out in the street; the sound of screaming tires, and the roar of a fast-accelerating engine. Running downstairs and out the front door, Andrew could hear children yelling, shouts of "The Blue Man! Stop the Blue Man!" and "Get the false minister!"

The four boys stood on the Baker's front porch as Jeff Rockbridge's blue Plymouth shot up Main Street, then veered left and shot down a dirt road that led far off into the endless rows of cornfields. A pack of children gave chase, but soon lost sight of the car in the clouds of dust it was kicking up. The chase was on, though, and a dozen more at least were soon combing the cornfields.

Andrew motioned to James and the other boy, John, and they began to join in on the hunt. But Matt stayed back, pointing to the small packs of children roaming up Main Street. They were clearing out houses, hunting down any adults until none remained.

"They'll need help, too," Matt said, his voice solemn. Briefly the two boys, one twelve and the other nearly thirteen, looked at each other. They couldn't quite say it, but it was true- Matt's parents would have to die, and so would Andrew's. Everyone's parents, in fact. That was just the way it had to be. But Matt, always a little more able to do the hard things in life than Andrew, was in a way volunteering to ensure Andrew didn't have to see or do any part of that himself. Not with his parents, at least, and in a way Andrew appreciated that.

Andrew nodded, and said solemnly, "The Lord's will be done." Nodding in turn, Matt headed off to join the packs sweeping Main Street. Andrew joined in on the hunt in the corn.

By the end of the day, the blue Plymouth had been found, a mile down the road into the corn and hidden in a side-road. The car had been smashed up beyond recognition, and that avenue of escape was most definitely gone for the two leaders in Gatlin who had managed to figure out what was going on in time. But where were the men inside? Where was the Blue Man, Gatlin's police chief? Where was Father Abrams, the false minister? Nobody knew, and when dusk came, the children were forced to give up the hunt. They were elated at the day's success, feeling a kind of power none of them had ever known before. But they knew those two men, in particular, were targeted for elimination. That they had gotten away was not good- it meant the children had failed.

When the children gathered at the Grace Baptist Church that night, tearing down the letters declaring its name and tearing the pipe organ's keys up, Isaac told them the Lord would likely be displeased with their failure. There would be a gathering in the clearing tomorrow; from now on entry into the cornfields at night was absolutely forbidden. The Lord would walk the rows at night, Isaac said, and would treat any who dared enter then as a blasphemer. But Isaac also smiled at the children, looking grimly pleased. They had done well today.

Each of the boys and girls whose names did not come from the Bible took new ones that day in June; Craig Boardman became Malachai, and Andrew Kingswood became Joseph. Their names, dates of birth, and new names were added into record books.

Joseph, for that was now his name, walked home with his friend Matt that night. Both boys were closing in on thirteen years old now- the beginning of the teenage years, which Isaac instead called the Age of Procreation. In spite of themselves, both boys had giggled a little at the name. It was kind of funny, considering all it meant was that a boy or girl's body was now able to make babies. More importantly, though, that was when it could be permitted. There would be strict rules for such things from now on- there would be a ceremony devised for the thing adults had called marriage, but instead it would be called a Joining, in which two of Gatlin's older children would gain an Other Beloved.

Joseph was bitterly disappointed- and deeply saddened- when Matt told him of something else that had happened that day. When Jennifer Creighton's family had come home and been ambushed during the Rising, Jennifer had joined her parents in resisting. Condemned as a non-believer, she was killed along with her parents. It was quite a shock to Joseph, and another blow added to losing his parents. When Joseph reached his house, watching Matt head into his, he realised for the first time as he stepped inside just how big and empty it was. This was the new age, in which no one over the age of nineteen could enter Gatlin and hope to live. Wherever the Blue Man and false minister had gone, they would be found soon enough.

And if either of those men dared remain in the corn after dark… Joseph shuddered. He might not have much loved the Lord that ruled Gatlin now, but he certainly feared Him. And that was very appropriate; it was what the Lord wanted.


	4. Chapter 4- August 1982

**Chapter IV- August 1982**

* * *

It was August 13th, 1982; the evening was warm but not hot, and while the weather remained dry as it often was in Nebraska, there was none of that miserable, brutal hotness that had plagued Gatlin just over a year ago. Joseph walked nervously along Main Street, headed to the former Grace Baptist Church. It stood off to the side of Main Street not far from the café in town, which had stood empty for years. Unlike Hanson's, though, the church had been maintained perfectly in the past year. It had been given a new coat of white paint this summer, and the hinges of all its doors were oiled not just with care, but reverence.

Joseph eyed it a ways down the road, fingering the collar of his dress-up clothes and clearing his throat nervously. He was thirteen years old today. Joseph was entering the Age of Procreation, and as part of a ceremony for the occasion, he would be experiencing It tonight, for the first time. It made little sense, doing that before a Joining when Isaac said such a thing was forbidden. But apparently, the initiation ceremony for a boy entering the Age of Procreation was an exception.

Matt poked him in the side, laughing a little. "You look like a blasphemer about to be brought before the Lord," he laughed. "You shouldn't worry about that." Matt paused, as if considering. "Not just yet."

"What was it like for you, when you went to yours?" Joseph asked. He was too nervous for jokes right now.

Matt shrugged. "Oh, I was nervous too- you remember. But the ceremony is a celebration, and you ask a girl to it for the occasion. Usually- almost always, in fact- she'll end up being your Other Beloved."

Matt looked over at his friend. "So who'd you ask?"

"Rachel Stigman," Joseph said, and that was the truth. He'd barely managed to stammer out his request, but after Joseph had slaved away working three corn fields behind the houses that summer, after he had saved Rachel from being raped by a gang of passing bikers by running and coming back with help, Rachel had actually been secretly hoping Joseph would ask. He was such a nice boy- handsome in his own way, quiet and modest. He would make a fine Other Beloved.

Matt punched his friend on the shoulder; he grinned again, pleased. "You did good, Joseph, real good. Proud of you."

Joseph smiled a little, looking down at the cracked sidewalk as they reached what passed for the business district of Gatlin. That happened to be a few empty shops and legal offices, going on for just a few hundred feet before ceasing completely. Oh, sure, Gatlin had had its obligatory movie theatre, small town café, police station and post office. But not one of those buildings had been used since the Rising; they were so untouched through the past year, in fact, that Hanson's still had its OPEN sign visible.

"Thanks," Joseph said. He felt rather proud of himself for working up the courage to ask Rachel; he hadn't been that nervous since his Waking. Just as all the boys had been told to do, he'd gone straight to Isaac the morning after that strange and pleasurable stirring had occurred below his waist for the first time. Joseph had been lying in bed, thinking of his thirteenth birthday coming up in just a few months, and when his mind turned to Rachel Stigman, he'd felt a curious excitement he'd never experienced before. Isaac had called this the Waking, when a boy reached the time where his body told him he was reaching the Age of Procreation. None of the boys ever concealed this; why would they, when growing up and joining the older boys was what _all_ of them wanted to do? They had the most authority, the greatest privileges- and the most fun, if boys like Matt could be believed.

Joseph had already come to associate a certain stirring below the waist with fanciful thoughts of the fairer sex. He knew such impure thoughts were wrong, and that a boy wasting his 'gift of life' on self-pleasure was tantamount to committing a crime in the new Gatlin. Joseph had done it just once, and so far Isaac didn't seem to know. But Joseph lived in fear of Isaac finding out, because a boy committing the wasteful and sinful act of self-pleasure was punishable by whipping. Malachai was not known to be merciful when using the lash.

Isaac knew a lot; it was actually scary how much he knew of the goings-on in Gatlin, even though he rarely seemed to leave his spartan quarters in the basement of the church. He was always lighting candles, reading through religious texts and walking the cornfields as the night gave way to dawn. Isaac was a mystery wrapped in a riddle, shrouded in rumour and myth. Some of the children whispered he was actually a dead boy, brought back to life to spread the word of the Lord. Others said he was the Lord, or at least a lesser minion.

The oldest boys insisted this was nonsense; Isaac was just the most devoted of them all, the most sincerely devout of He Who Walks Behind the Rows' followers in Gatlin. He was growing up as they were, and his uncommon knowledge came from the Lord himself. Isaac was Seer, the child-prophet to whom He Who Walks Behind the Rows spoke in visions that came as dreams while the Seer slept.

Malachai had explained it simply one time: "The Lord sees all, so Isaac sees all." That about summed it up, and it made all the children that much more fearful of Isaac. Many times, Joseph had wondered if he, through Him, could see the secrets kept in the minds and hearts of the children. Could Isaac know that some of the children occasionally held thoughts of dissent, the rare and fleeting question or doubt? Joseph wondered, but knew that he'd never ask Isaac. He was afraid of the answer.

"Hey!" Matt punched Joseph in the arm again, and Joseph grumbled; Matt was getting to be a strong boy after so many summers working in the fields, and even his lighter punches hit hard. But Matt was being playful as always, and he smiled when he saw Joseph glowering at him.

"At least you're not scared anymore, you sissy," he said. Joseph started to tell him just what Matt could do with that, but stopped short, before he took the name of the Lord in vain. Instead, he calmed himself and kept walking. The church was getting a little closer, each step he took.

"I- do I really have to put that robe on? Go up in front of everybody?"

Matt nodded. "Yep. That's how it was for me when I was initiated, when I officially passed over into the Age of Procreation." Matt spoke with a certain excitement- he seemed to relish the memory, though he also recalled how nervous he'd been that night two months ago. Then Matt looked at Joseph curiously. "I thought you'd know- weren't you there?"

"No, I was sick that night, remember?" Joseph said. Partly a lie- he had been ill that day, and hadn't been able to do his usual full day of work in the fields. But he had also stayed home because his Waking had been just a few days before Matt's initiation, and Joseph had wanted to taste a certain forbidden fruit just once. Maybe he'd gotten away with it, too. Not getting whipped would sure be nice.

Matt shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. I do remember you looked a little out of it that day. So, anyway, what they do is like this. Isaac gets up and talks a bunch-"

"Like he always does," Joseph sniggered.

"Shh!" Matt said, his eyes darting about cautiously. Malachai seemed to be everywhere at once, just like Isaac seemed to see everything at once. It wouldn't do for either of them to hear Joseph joking about the Seer.

Joseph sighed; even humour seemed to be banned in Gatlin these days. It was a strict life they led, the children in Gatlin- the price of protection from the outside world's evils. The price of prosperity.

Finally, Matt continued. "Well, Isaac gets up and talks- only the younger ones come to an initiation, only the ones who are nearing their Waking, or at least haven't had theirs yet." Joseph vaguely recalled some teenagers talking once, some cousins of Matt's from out of town and their friends. Boys hadn't had these names for such things then; one of Matt's cousins, with his deeper voice and much keener interest in girls, had called it 'puberty'. Or something.

Matt went on, "So Isaac tells them all about the Age of Procreation, and how the act of intercourse is never to be done only for pleasure. Nor can a boy waste the gift of life by pleasuring himself alone, and not know the burden of shame. Then you and your Other come out, a girl you ask who is also reaching the age." Matt grinned, a little roguishly. "Then you, you know, _do_ it."

Joseph looked at Matt curiously, though he already knew what his friend meant. "Do _what_?"

Matt grinned again. "Procreate."

Joseph stared. "You mean, like, make a life? You give the girl the gift of _life_?" Like 'puberty', all terms relating to the teenage years and their divergence from earlier childhood had been replaced. You never said "fuck" anymore, and never did you "get a girl pregnant". All the coarse terms of the outside world had been swept away; they were blasphemies. Joseph had a hard time believing a boy was supposed to produce a life on his initiation night. That seemed a little… much. Joseph was nervous; he tugged at his collar as the church got bigger and closer. It wouldn't be long now.

But Matt shook his head. "No, you don't that time. It's the only time you do things that way. That's because we can't make a life before our Joining. That would be a blasphemy in His sight."

They reached the base of the steps; the wooden frame of the former Grace Baptist Church loomed up above them. Joseph looked a little pale. Matt, finally setting levity aside, set his hands on Joseph's shoulders. "Joseph- listen to me. You should be proud; this initiation is for you, about you. It means you're growing up. Wouldn't you like to have those fields behind your house for Rachel, too? Just think about it. You could have a nice life with her."

Joseph nodded; it was all very true. He hoped he'd make a good enough Beloved Other for her. Rachel Stigman was a pretty girl, steadily growing towards the later years of the Age of Favor. She was slender and attractive- though Joseph knew he wasn't supposed to think about that- and had beautiful holly-brown hair, green eyes, and a smooth, pale face with freckles. She deserved a good, strong boy, and while Joseph worked as hard in the fields as anybody, he sometimes still wondered if he was good enough for somebody like Rachel. He must have been, because when Joseph had asked, she'd said yes. He could still hardly believe that was so.

Matt tugged at Joseph's arm. It was time for him to head inside and get into the robe, the only thing he would be wearing during the ceremony… until he- and Rachel- got to the part where they'd be wearing nothing at all. Joseph nodded finally, suppressing his fear as best he could and making his way up the steps. He was reaching the Age of Procreation tonight; perhaps soon, he'd be asking Rachel Stigman to a Joining. This was a good thing, what was happening tonight. _Maybe_, Joseph thought, _things haven't turned out so bad in Gatlin after all_.


	5. Chapter 5- May 1983

**Chapter V- May 1983**

* * *

Early April meant the harsh Nebraska winter was over for good; it meant the planting was to be done, and soon, in preparation for the long, hot summer. Spring also meant the relative calm of the winter was over, and in a sense Joseph missed that. He had asked Rachel to be his Other Beloved in December, and he'd never been quite so happy as the day he and Rachel Stigman each held a hand out so Isaac could run a knife across their palm. The two had clasped their blooded hand in the other's, symbolic of the joining of the two lives, and the soon-to-be-joined blood.

The winter months were mostly spent inside, either at home or at church. A select few guarded the town's food and fuel reserves; Jim, the grizzled old mechanic who lived a few miles out of town, would periodically order coal or wood with money Gatlin's bank or citizens no longer needed.

The fact that winter was mostly spent indoors, and had the most leisure time out of the whole year, naturally meant that the most new lives were made in winter. Joseph had proved to be a loving Beloved Other, willing to walk a mile in the snow if it meant getting extra reserves of wood and coal stocked up for the fireplace. While girls were meant to be the home-makers, Joseph insisted on doing as much for Rachel as possible. He wanted, needed, to be a good enough boy to be loved by Rachel Stigman. Anything for her he could do, he would do.

The two had grown very fond of each other in the past months, and Matt would have grinned like a Cheshire cat if he could have seen how Joseph and Rachel had kept each other warm on some of the coldest nights. Joseph never did quite understand why It felt so good if it wasn't supposed to be fun. But he had gone on anyway, making love to Rachel joyfully as well as dutifully. Then, starting in February, Rachel's smooth, pale belly, the one Joseph had so lovingly kissed on those warmest of nights, had begun swelling up. In a sense this was a great excitement for Joseph, but it also meant he had a lot of work ahead of him- once a girl grew far enough into carrying a new life, she was to stay at home and never do any significant work. All responsibility fell on her Other Beloved, which meant that regardless of their age, boys in Gatlin who had a new life on the way worked harder than anybody.

Joseph knew the summer was coming, and with it many long, hot days. He didn't like the idea of Rachel sitting up in the bedroom, the windows open but still sweating from too light a breeze. He'd gone to Matt, as Joseph often did about things. Matt had quietly asked him to come along next time he walked out of town to see old Jim, and his dog, Sarge. The old mechanic lived far enough from Gatlin that Isaac had not bothered to send anyone out to deal with him on the day of the Rising; a few weeks later, Isaac had sent a small party of boys out to him with an offer: keep selling your gas, fixing your cars, but direct all traffic away from Gatlin and over to Hemingford. The alternative, or the punishment for telling anyone something was up in Gatlin, was simple: death, and not a painless one.

The man hadn't liked it- he was well into his fifties, and his hands shook a bit as he listened to the boys talk. This couldn't possibly be real. It had to be a dream. But when the boys hadn't vanished like things often did in dreams, when they'd still been there when Jim had blinked a couple of times, Jim had been forced to acknowledge they were real. He'd accepted the offer; what choice was there? But he ran a sort of general store out of his shop as well as a small roadside gas station, and now and then boys from Gatlin had come out there asking him for things. Not much; usually just some extra wood or coal for their fires. Sometimes they'd buy a Coke, looking furtively about and drinking it quickly. Jim watched this with amazement; it seemed like anything fun must be illegal in Gatlin now.

Matt and Joseph walked through the corn for several miles, staying within sight of the road so they wouldn't get lost. It amazed them how cool the earth felt beneath their bare feet, even on the warmest of days. It was always a little cool in the summer, a little warm in the winter, that soil that lay where the corn grew. It was never rocky, never infested with snakes or bugs. It was just nice, good, hearty soil. Nothing else.

Then they reached an end to the corn, and spotted the gas station sitting off to the side of the graying road. There was a 1970's International wrecker truck in the yard, along with a sun-beaten old 40's Ford truck that old man Jim was forever trying to fix. So few cars came through these days, it was about all he had to do most days. His house was just up the road from the gas station, so it was never a long trip if he ever wanted to come down and work on the Ford.

When the two boys emerged from the clearing, old man Jim was sitting in the yard on the bed of the Ford, humming some old tune from the Great War Two days and munching on a sandwich. The black-and-white mutt Sarge was sitting near the back of the truck, and as the two boys stepped out of the corn in their farmer's coveralls, Jim looked down and scratched Sarge's ears.

When he looked up again and saw the two standing there, his face went a little pale. "Now, look, you boys," he said nervously. "I ain't had nobody come by today, and the last bunch I sent off to Hemingford a few days ago. I never told 'em nothin', just like always!"

"That's good, mister," Matt said, smiling sweetly. "We're very glad for that. May the Lord bless you."

The man went paler still; Joseph glanced at his friend briefly. Joseph didn't entirely like how Matt seemed to be enjoying the old man's fear of the children from Gatlin. Jim just muttered, "Yeah, yeah, I'm real glad for that, too. God bless the corn."

Now Matt was smiling like a wolf.

Joseph took a step forward, making himself ignore the way Jim flinched. "We wanted to know if you had a moveable breeze."

The man stared; what the hell was a 'moveable breeze'?

Matt, however, seemed to recall enough of the outside world's terminology to remember. "We want a fan, one you don't need to plug up in the wall."

Jim looked at them warily, wondering why they'd be asking him for something like this. "What you boys need it for?"

Matt smiled again, gesturing proudly at his friend. "My friend here has reached the Age of Procreation, as of last year. He has made a new life with his Other Beloved."

Now it was Matt's turn to speak gibberish to the grizzled old mechanic; he stared again, at a complete loss. "Boys, you must be learnin' yourselves a whole new kind of English over there. You got old Jim right confused."

Joseph blushed a little now; he knew what he needed to say, but didn't know how to say it. "My Other Beloved; she's carrying a new life," Joseph said, hoping it would make sense. "I want her to be comfortable inside while I'm out in the fields this summer."

Finally Jim understood. He nodded, again amazed at the attitude and demeanor these kids had. Some of them were real mean devils, like that tall one with the freckles and the long red hair. All of them dressed very simply, either like farmers or like Quakers, usually a mix of both. And they all talked very weird, like none of the usual words for things were even allowed. They also spoke of God with great fear, as if they lived in constant terror of His displeasure. But they were also solemn, and surprisingly mature as a whole for a bunch of kids.

They didn't ever mess around about business, and they were always minding their responsibilities to others. They might have argued about trivial things like children always did, but even Jim knew that most other places in America, a pair of thirteen year old boys would never have been seriously discussing the need to provide their wives(!) with a fan so they could rest comfortably while pregnant over the summer. It was funny- or would have been had the whole thing not been so terrifying- but Jim had noticed that getting religion had almost forced the kids to mature just a bit, regardless of how old they were. They'd grown up a little. Had they not been so silent as to the fate of every one of their parents, had that God of theirs not been so absolutely terrifying to even hear rumors of, Jim would have almost liked the kids from Gatlin. They would never TP your house on Halloween; _that_ was for sure.

They haggled about it for a while, Jim eventually settling for fifteen dollars in exchange for the fan and some batteries. He told the boys that the fan would need new ones after a while, and that the father-to-be could come out and get some new batteries when he needed to. Jim wondered about the quiet, black-haired kid. He was so polite, even when he came out on the routine 'here's some money to buy things we need and look normal with' trip whoever was in charge of Gatlin sent somebody on each month or so. Jim wanted to ask him why he was even with this nasty lot, worshipping this mean, mean God when he himself seemed so nice. But that other one, the kid with the wolfish grin and the straw-blonde hair? Jim didn't like that kid. It was so strange to Jim that the two boys were friends; it didn't much make sense. But then, nothing in Gatlin seemed to make sense. Not anymore.

When Joseph returned home that evening, he had dinner in the kitchen with Rachel; aware of how hard Joseph worked in the plantings and harvestings each season, Joseph's Other Beloved had resolved to do her part in any way possible. She proved a resourceful as well as talented cook, and however much Joseph's body ached after a day of hard work, he knew he could count on Rachel to be there for him when he got home. That evening after the trip into town, Joseph prayed with Rachel as he always did, silently giving a thanks of his own for how fortunate he was to have such a girl in his life, as he always did. But after she'd gone to bed, Joseph lay beside her, still awake. Staring up at the ceiling, his mind swirled with troubled- and forbidden- thoughts. It was the knowledge that he was on his way to becoming a father; it had to be. Such an experience was hardly common in a place like the United States for a boy of his age. But Gatlin wasn't like the United States anymore; for all it mattered, in fact, Gatlin had ceased to be part of it.

But after thinking about it long enough, Joseph realised he was only kidding himself. Getting out of bed slowly so as to not disturb Rachel, Joseph made his way downstairs. There wasn't a sound in the house; no more was there the tick of a battery-powered wall clock or the hum of the refrigerator. Those things didn't bother Joseph; his family had never been able to afford much of such luxuries anyway. No, it was the fact that he was on the way to creating a family of his own that had Joseph's mind drawn back to the one he'd had before.

_I let Isaac kill my parents_, Joseph thought. _I helped him do the killing, and now I'm living in their house, loving a girl in their bedroom_.

Something about that didn't sit right with Joseph. Wandering around in the dark of his house's spartan living room, Joseph suddenly found his eyes riveted on the mantelpiece. The fireplace below it was dark now; the coming summer guaranteed few cold nights, at least, though in their place would come many broiling hot days. The room was dark, but the moon outside provided light enough. Joseph's eyes set on a framed photo of himself and his parents, still sitting on the mantelpiece. Somehow, the purges of the Rising had missed it.

Joseph walked over to the fireplace, picking up the photo and staring silently down at it. Slowly, tears forced their way into Joseph's eyes- he abruptly staggered back to the fading tan sofa and sat down on it. Abruptly, raw fear stole into him- Joseph looked up, staring fearfully around him in the dark. Was anyone watching? Could anyone see him? The Lord was said, always, to be all-seeing and omniscient. He could see everything; even the secrets kept in human hearts. That was what Isaac said, and Isaac was rarely wrong in even the slightest way.

Could the Lord see the guilt in Joseph's heart, then? Could He see as Joseph silently wept in the living room of what was now his house, grieving for the death of his parents?

It didn't matter. For right now, Joseph couldn't have cared less. He buried his face in the pillow, knowing that it wouldn't make any difference. Hiding his face wouldn't hide his shame.

For the first time, that night in May of 1983, Joseph wondered what life was like outside of Gatlin. It was just a momentary, fleeting thought, fast swept away by terror of having his thoughts seen and discovered by Isaac. But for just one moment, Joseph thought of running for the first time. It wasn't to be the last.

Sometime later that night, Joseph returned to his bedroom, smiling a little when he saw his Other Beloved still lay comfortably asleep. She was already growing used to the way things were now; for a girl, it meant taking care of the home, helping to fulfill His commandment that they, the children of the corn, be fruitful and multiply. That was all girls really were expected to do in Gatlin now, and compared to all the work the boys had to do outside- year-round, essentially- that probably was pretty easy to get used to.

Lying in bed and slowly drifting off to sleep beside Rachel, Joseph wondered briefly how far it was to Hemingford. Then he wondered if Rachel might come with him. But in the end, Joseph decided against it. She was carrying his child now, her middle getting bigger every day. She couldn't leave anytime soon, and neither could Joseph.

_Not yet_, he thought in the silent dark of his parents' house. _Not just yet_.

_But soon_.


	6. Chapter 6- June 1984

**Chapter VI- June 1984**

* * *

Joseph walked barefoot through the rows, wearing his Sunday best. It was early morning in the summer, the best time of day for feeling the earth beneath your feet and the drops of dew on the corn on your hands. Joseph walked slowly through one row and over to another, delighting at the feel of the cool earth beneath his feet, going between his toes when he wiggled them around. This was the way he'd loved to walk in the cornfields, going back almost to the day he was born.

The corn protected Gatlin before the rising, and it protected Gatlin now. Alone under the hot sun and with nothing but the miles of corn to sustain the town, Gatlin had depended on its corn harvests for survival from the very beginning. In time the children had come to decide there was too much sinning, too little sacrifice, and the Rising had happened. For three years now, the children of Gatlin, Nebraska lived under the protection of that terribly old god. Him. He Who Walks Behind the Rows.

In many ways, Joseph was no different from any of the other boys in the town. The corn was all he'd ever known; Joseph had always been a farmer, and he always would be. Since the Rising, the corn had been the domain of a harsh, demanding god… but one who also delivered on the promises he made. Joseph felt safe in the corn, even this morning; whatever god lived in the corn now- or perhaps always had- it had become Joseph's protector.

But this morning wasn't the same as all the ones Joseph had known growing up. Things had changed, and nothing was ever gonna be the same again. Joseph had thought now and then about who he was, about Gatlin, about what he needed to do. By now, in June, he'd finally made up his mind.

For some three years now Joseph had lived in the new Gatlin- a small, quiet place where no sin went unpunished and even thoughts of dissent were dangerous. Joseph knew that if the murder done by the children three years ago would in the end be viewed as a crime by the Almighty, he was hardly free of sins himself. He might not have done any killing himself… but he'd let it all happen. He'd stood by and watched as every bit of it had happened, as a religious fury swept the desperate, scared children and even Gatlin's oldest, most harmless adult citizens were killed with neither pity nor mercy.

Joseph knew he thought differently now, on this June morning in 1984, than he had back in May of 1981. Perhaps finding his conscience played some role… but beyond a doubt losing the child had been part of it. So had losing Rachel.

It had all gone so well- despite his misgivings, for a long time Joseph had accepted the aftermath of the Rising. For a time, he'd grown used to the new order- like all the other children did, save for perhaps Sarah and Job- and come to accept the new code of laws. And on those warm nights with Rachel, on those nights when they both lay together and looked forward to the day the new life they'd made would arrive, Joseph had truly felt happy.

But losing the child had ruined Rachel; it had died during the birth, a process that held nothing but good old-fashioned agony for the girl. Such things happened, once in a while; some tragedies simply couldn't be avoided. But no part of that had been any consolation to Rachel. Joseph had stood by her, cared for her as best he knew how… but none of it, not even his sincerest efforts and kindest acts of love, had been enough. Maybe it was simple misfortune; Joseph had come to doubt that saying that tragedy never struck in the same house twice.

But whatever the cause, Rachel had fallen ill during the winter of 1983, and in spite of Joseph's best efforts and most devoted prayers, she'd died just this past spring. Isaac had conducted her funeral with his usual harsh efficiency, proclaiming that in spite of her misfortunes, she had lived a life of service and remained true to the Lord. Joseph, standing there in a set of black Amish-like clothes he'd gotten for the funeral, had listened to that with a certain interest. He wondered how Isaac knew that… and then realised the answer to that question was always the same. Isaac was the Seer; he knew damn near everything that went on in Gatlin. Certainly he knew everything that mattered.

Joseph had been granted a week of solitude, provided he pray three times a day and, in keeping with custom for the Week of Mourning, speak to no one but Him during those seven days. Joseph had obeyed, and he did sometimes feel that someone- sometimes Rachel, sometimes He Who Walks Behind the Rows- was with him that week. But at the end of it, Joseph had rejoined his best friend Matt on his way to church that Sunday, and no more was said about it. Joseph wished he could ask Matt about his doubts, question him on what to do- but Matt was a good boy, a true follower of the Lord. He had changed, a little at a time, over the years, and now seemed to delight in the fact that Malachai was beginning to see him as a protégé and potential successor. Malachai, tall and strong with a mane of flaming red hair, was leader of the Hunters, the warrior caste of the children's society living in Gatlin. Numbering some twenty out of the five hundred or so children in town, the Hunters were slim, athletic boys, quick on their feet and mean as bulldogs. They were chosen by Isaac after a night of communing with Him, with unquestioning religious faith being a key part of the criteria for joining.

No; Matt still lived across the street from Joseph, and the two were still good friends. But Matt was close to joining the Hunters himself; he would never run from Gatlin. Not now. If he did have any doubts, he was wise in keeping them well hidden. Isaac had eyes and ears everywhere, because in his dreams the Seer spoke to the Lord Himself. Perhaps that was it; maybe Matt was simply too afraid to share his reservations with anybody, even a good friend. Joseph wished he could have gone to Matt last night, or this morning, and told him of his plan. But Matt was busy working the fields along with the other boys, maintaining the food stores in the silos and protecting the town on the rare occasion outlanders passed through. He also had a new child of his own; Matt and his Other Beloved had been luckier than Joseph and Rachel had been. Joseph couldn't endanger his friend, and he couldn't endanger his friend's child. Matt would be better off if he never knew Joseph was going to run today.

Running away. The words flashed through Joseph's mind as he walked through the coolness of the soil and the steady, assuring touch of the endless rows of corn. It was June 6, 1984, forty years after the beginning of the D-Day landings in Normandy, France. Distantly, Joseph wondered if any Great War Two vets had been killed in the Rising, or if any of their brothers, cousins, or fathers had been. There was no way of knowing; records of such things had been burned right along with the televisions. All wars were an affront to God, Isaac said, because adults fabricated their causes and forced young men to wage them, leaving the children naught but to suffer and die. That, at least, Joseph agreed with. But he would be having no part of it anymore.

Joseph had been very careful this past week, and for the many weeks before that. He had kept his mind off the subject of running, far away from his doubts about Isaac's new God and his wish for the return of the one he'd known before. When Joseph had thought of running, he thought of a mole, scampering across the back lawn in escape of a hoe, forced to flee as Joseph tilled the land. The mole was Joseph, and the hoe was the wrath of God, which despite everything Joseph still deeply feared. He was and had always been intensely religious; but he was starting to wonder if this He Who Walks Behind the Rows wasn't a different god. Not Christ Himself, the son of God, but another god… a different one. No younger, no less wise… and no less real. But he claimed to be the Lord God, yet in no way resembled anything but the God spoken of in the Old Testament. What of the New? According to Isaac, every word of it was false. But Joseph wondered. What if both these gods existed, and the other, darker god had simply gained a foothold here? At that thought, as he wandered the corn behind his house alone that June morning, Joseph felt very cold. His heart went very still.

And in just that moment, Joseph was sure- absolutely certain- that that was how it had really happened. This other god had won a great victory here in Gatlin, gained a foothold of strength in the world… one this old, terribly old god had yearned for, hungered for… for a very, very long time. Joseph was very sure all this was true; he knew it.

If there were two gods, then that meant one could choose sides. Joseph knew he had to make a choice and make it now. He just hoped the God he'd forsaken three years ago would be as forgiving as the New Testament said.

Joseph teetered unsteadily on his feet; some part of this revelation had drained him. Was this what having a vision, being Seer, was like? No, Joseph remembered Isaac saying the Lord only came to a Seer in the chosen boy's sleep… but what was this, then?

The dark-haired boy didn't know. He couldn't answer any of those questions. He fell over and passed out, lying there quietly in the softness of the earth as the sun rose over the endless miles of corn.


	7. Chapter 7- Joseph's Escape

**Chapter VII- Joseph's Escape**

* * *

It was afternoon, and the sun was blazing down from the sky. Joseph had woken up after maybe half an hour, and he'd managed to hurry and still get to the Sunday service at the former Grace Baptist Church that morning. Isaac boasted of the town's success as of late; food stocks were high, the water supply from newly-dug wells good, and the harvest for this summer looked to be the best one yet.

There were seven new children in town, the oldest- Adam, the first boy, and Eve, the first girl- being almost three years old. Adam was Malachai's boy; his Other Beloved, Ruth, was the object of more than a few secretly envious stares, and was set to spend another summer lying on her back while Malachai worked his fields, her belly again swelling with the form of Malachai's second child.

Thinking of that had brought a surge of bitter envy into Joseph- he'd lost both the child and his Other Beloved with the first real effort… the one that had made both him and Rachel so happy. He had to run; Joseph realised it as his mind thought of that escaping mole again at church that morning, as he joined the rest of the choir in singing the Lord's praises. He had to run. For Rachel.

And so it was that at exactly one in the afternoon, dressed in his best clothes and shoes and with his only suitcase packed with clothes, money, wrapped cornbread and a cross made from cobs of corn, Joseph shot out his backdoor and bolted off into the corn, heading for the barn down the road. Great masses of grain sacks, grass seed, and countless farming tools were stored there; it was also just at the edge of town, and if Joseph made it past there he'd probably make it all the way to Hemingford.

Now and then, as Joseph ran through the corn with his simple leather-covered suitcase in hand, he looked off to his left and right. Once or twice he glanced behind him; Joseph was beginning to have difficulty shaking the feeling that he was being watched. The corn, if it knew of the fourteen year-old boy's treason, made no attempt to block his progress… but Joseph somehow felt he wasn't entirely alone. And just once, Joseph stopped entirely, crouching low and staring off to his left. What was that back there, far off in the shadows of the rows?

As he made his way onward, though, even that feeling of unease proved unfounded. If Malachai or any of his Hunters knew, they'd be after Joseph right now. One of _them_ would have slit Joseph's throat right when he fled his home; the fact that he was breaking through into the clearing surrounding the old barn was a good sign. A very good sign.

Joseph paused to rest in the barn's merciful shade; the sun was already promising another hard day of labor and service in the Lord's name. It always did in the summers; if the rains were kind and the harvest good, things could be better than tolerable… but life was always hard in Gatlin, Nebraska. It always had been.

Footsteps outside the barn after about ten minutes; Joseph's heart leapt into his throat. Frozen in fear, he realised he had been caught off-guard. There was nothing he could do but wait and see who it was.

The footsteps soon turned out to be two pairs of feet; small ones, pattering along the grass. Joseph sighed a little, feeling relieved- at least it wasn't Malachai.

Instead, it was Job, seven years old now and with a mess of straw-blonde hair on his head, and his sister Sarah that rounded the corner and came into the barn. The Baker children eyed Joseph curiously; despite Job having witnessed the slaughter at Hanson's on the day of the Rising, both of them tried very hard to forget the ugly violence of the day. They were nice children, simply put- they held no great love for adults these days, but were more open-minded about the chance that not all of them were truly bad. Joseph wasn't the only one who remembered the kindness of his parents.

Why Isaac tolerated their lack of true religious fervor nobody knew; if nothing else, Job and Sarah generally kept to themselves and didn't try to sway any of the other children to their way of thinking. That, combined with their young age, was probably the reason for Isaac overlooking them. It was as likely a cause as any.

"Joseph, where are you going?" Job asked, wide-eyed and curious.

"We saw you running; we were coming up to your house from the road," Sarah said.

Joseph jumped to his feet, running over to the Baker children and pulling them inside the barn. Looking them both in the eyes, he said in a low, urgent voice, "I have to go, guys. I just can't stay here anymore. Something's wrong, and I-" Joseph faltered, unsure of what to say.

He had already wasted too much time; he'd already said too much. If two children as mild-mannered as Job and his sister could find Joseph in the midst of his escape… that made Joseph very much inclined to think twice about that moment when he'd stopped, wondering what was back there in the shadows.

A surge of panic threatened to overtake Joseph; his mind screamed one word: _Malachai_.

But Joseph shook his head, looking sadly at the two children. Job and Sarah had always been nice kids, and they had come to like Joseph a great deal. Perhaps they, on the outer fringe of the less-devout children in Gatlin, were able to sense Joseph's doubts and growing wish to flee. Joseph could see the longing in their eyes; they probably wished he would stay and that he would take them, both at the same time.

"I just have to go," Joseph said quietly. "You guys will understand… later. Maybe I'll even come back for you guys, once I have someplace we can go."

Job looked so sad it was heartbreaking. "Can't we come with you?" he pleaded.

"We don't like Isaac or Malachai either," Sarah said.

"Please," Joseph hissed suddenly, "don't say that!" There were not many true dissidents in Gatlin anymore; He Who Walks Behind the Rows was simply too powerful, too able to see into the hearts of the children He had promised to protect. And protect he did… until he heard a whisper of blasphemy or even the possibility of dissent. Joseph had seen a whipping or two, watched one boy captured when his parents got lost coming through on their way to Hemingford be… killed. Painfully. He'd refused to convert, too grieved at the loss of his parents to even consider it. Isaac had looked sad, but ordered the boy's death anyway. There had been nothing Isaac or any of the children could do for an unbeliever.

That was what Joseph was now; soon, even if he did get away, his treason would be discovered and his name cursed before the Lord, He Who Walks Behind the Rows. Suspected friends and fellow conspirators would be in danger. Matt might get off, given his good standing with both Isaac and Malachai and his lack of knowledge of Joseph's plan of escape. But Job, and Sarah? Isaac might not let them off this time if he thought they were somehow to blame. Joseph liked Job and Sarah a lot; he didn't want that for them.

Joseph paused, looking at Job and Sarah sadly. They'd quieted down, and were clearly sad to see him go. "I _have_ to, guys," Joseph insisted. "This is just how it has to be."

"But we don't want you to go _alone_," Job said miserably. "We're afraid _Malachai_ will get you."

The name put a tremor of fear into Joseph's heart, but he shook his head. He couldn't afford to wait any longer. "That's why it's better if I go alone," Joseph said. "I'll come back for you guys, I promise."

Suddenly, both children ran forward and hugged Joseph- their small arms wrapped themselves around Joseph's lean but fast-toughening shoulders. Job sniffled, his face buried in the shoulder of Joseph's green-black plaid shirt. "Bye, Joseph," he said quietly, his voice muffled.

"We'll miss you," Sarah said, sounding close to tears.

Joseph cleared his throat twice; he found suddenly that he was somehow unable to speak. Finally he managed to speak, choking out, "I'll miss you guys, too." Joseph's eyes brimmed with tears that he blinked furiously away; he meant it. He _would_ miss these two.

Then Joseph gently but firmly pushed them away, taking hold of his suitcase and standing up. He stared off into the corn, into the two-lane road not far off in the distance. His eyes were hard and calculating now, but also hopeful. That road went for a few miles up to old Jim's place; from there, he'd make it to Hemingford for sure. Whatever influence He Who Walks Behind the Rows had, whatever ability there was that gave him power over Gatlin, it seemed weaker, more distant, once you got far enough outside of town.

_All I have to do is make it that far_, Joseph told himself. _I just gotta make it to old Jim's place. No big deal, right_? He'd done it plenty of times before.

And once he got that far, once he made it out… well, _then_, Joseph would be truly free. The idea made him want to smile, but it wasn't time for that yet. With one final farewell to Job and Sarah, Joseph darted low across the clearing, taking care first to make sure no one was watching. But when he got to the corn and reentered the row lining the clearing, Joseph turned back. Job and Sarah were watching, waving and even smiling a little. They wished him all the best; Joseph could see that, and was thankful for it. He smiled and waved back for just a moment.

Then he ran.

It was about three miles, by the road or through the corn, to the old gas station where the grizzled old man named Jim still lived. Joseph ran parallel to the road through the corn, about fifty feet back. Far enough back that he couldn't be seen, but close enough that he could flee the concealment of the corn for the open space of the road if the need came. Joseph was in good shape, and had all the motivation he needed- in six minutes flat, he estimated he'd run a full mile.

Joseph made it halfway through the next and no farther.

After he'd been running for some eight or nine minutes, Joseph heard a rustling in the corn behind him. Fear suddenly surged through him, and Joseph ran harder, his legs pumping and his leather shoes digging into the soil as he intensified his efforts to get away. The rustling continued; someone else was pushing through the corn after him.

Joseph was no fool; he knew what was happening. He knew what was behind him, and how his urgent need to flee had now become a desperate race, literally for survival.

He ran so fast his legs burned and his lungs screamed for mercy, but Joseph just wasn't fast enough. He felt strong hands grab at him and turned; he got off just one second's worth of a panicked scream before one of those hands clamped over his mouth. Joseph managed to turn his head just enough to catch sight of a boy with long, red hair going down to his shoulders before the hand clamped over his mouth jerked his head forward again.

Joseph's right hand still gripped his suitcase, and his captor made no effort to take it. It had nothing of any use to the older boy, and in any case, touching anything this unbeliever had touched was a blasphemy in itself. Joseph was now Ahaz, cursed of God, and all he touched was unclean. Isaac had been very specific about that.

The dark-haired boy with the cool green eyes tried to scream, but couldn't. He struggled fiercely, fought to break free and run again, but the older, stronger boy just swatted his desperate, frantic efforts aside. Joseph's eyes were wide, staring- they darted about as if looking for a rescuer or some last-second avenue of escape; the younger boy's face was the very picture of terror.

Then the strong hands jerked Joseph's head back so the soft base of his throat was exposed to the sky. Joseph uttered a mumbled scream so primal, so utterly afraid, it sounded more like a small animal of prey than a boy. Or a boy… now become prey. The long Bowie knife flashed brilliant steel for just a moment before being set hard against his throat. A second later, Malachai's voice whispered in Joseph's ear.

"Remand your soul to God, for you will stand before His throne momentarily."

Then the knife slashed.

The rush of blood was immediate, gushing; Joseph's vision went white with the searing pain. Now the strong hands of Malachai released him; not only that, but shoved him away, as if to get clean of his taint. Joseph cupped his left hand to his throat, squawking and gobbling, making strange noises as he tried hopelessly to stem the rush of blood from his neck. But Joseph staggered onward, and somehow after a moment found the strength to run.

Joseph was dying; part of him knew it. But another part of Joseph was so utterly afraid, so intent on breaking free and escaping, that the dark-haired boy locked eyes on the fading gray of the asphalt some twenty feet away. The road! _That_ was it. If he just made it there, he'd be okay. Maybe Matt had come to help him, or maybe his dad. Yes, that _had_ to be why Malachai had let him go; the hands that shoved Joseph towards the road had to be friendly ones, urging him on. To run, to escape and to at last, once again, be free.

Joseph half-staggered, half-ran through the corn, his eyes locked on the road and his right hand still gripping the old, battered suitcase his father had gotten for him years ago. His strength was fading fast; once and then twice, then three times, Joseph staggered hard and nearly fell. He kept going, though, forcing himself onward- Joseph knew that if he stopped now, if he fell, he would be killed. Or, the more sane part of his mind reminded him, he would simply lie there and bleed to death, too weak to get up.

_I'll never die like that!_

That last desperate thought spurred Joseph on. He made it out of the corn, no longer knowing or caring of the blood he'd splashed over so many cornstalk leaves behind him. The sun shone down brilliantly, and Joseph could no longer feel its harshness- just its warmth and love. The suitcase fell from Joseph's hand; what the hell, the boy shrugged. He didn't need it.

Joseph could barely stand now; he dimly became aware that the warm, wet feeling now coating his front was his own blood, and he had lost far, far too much of it to have any chance of living even another minute. But the hope of escape somehow drove the boy on still, and he summoned the last of his strength to begin a sprint across the two lanes of faded blacktop. _At least_, Joseph thought distantly, _I'll die on the other side_. Why did Joseph cross the road? So he could die on the other side! Remember that if you try to run, the Lord will see you do it and Malachai will slit your throat like a bratwurst.

The dark-haired boy named Joseph, known as Andrew Kingswood in another life of three years ago, never heard the beige Ford Thunderbird flying down the road towards him, well over the posted speed limit of fifty-five miles an hour. He never heard the car coming, never saw it or the thirty-something-year-old couple bickering furiously behind the wheel.

Joseph never even heard the scream of brakes as he began his final run across the two lanes of road, his path intersecting the T-Bird's and his existence finally coming to the bickering couple's notice. Up to the second the car's front bumper, shining with brilliant, polished chrome, slammed into his side and shattered more than one of his bones, Joseph's mind was set on one thing: escape. Even as he toppled over from the impact and started to go under the bumper, his neck snapping as he hit the pavement, Joseph's mind was a litany of escape, a broken record whose songs told only of desperate, doomed bids for freedom.

As Joseph ran out onto the faded gray highway and was struck by Burt Robeson's car, his last thoughts were the same thing, repeated over and over because he just couldn't think of anything else:

_I gotta make it. I gotta run, I gotta run, I gotta get away! I gotta get awa-_


End file.
